Deadly Observations
by saichanlovestoad
Summary: A twisted look at who's to blame for a woman's death when she meets the wrong man at a bar. A series of oneshots based around that theme. Rated to be on the safe side.
1. Fault

A/N- I do not own any of these characters. This was written purely for fun. I am making no money off this fic. Thank you.

This is technically how I practice writing. I write little pieces of narrative to show POV and feelings. I wrote this in one shot and did a quick edit. Simply the detached view of life and death after some severe trauma.

Enjoy. Love, Sai-Chan.

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She was beautiful in a disastrous sort of way. Her hair was golden blond, pinned back in fluffy curls. That had been her first cardinal sin. The next was her creamy complexion. All her shivering skin was perfect. Perhaps if she had just one scar, one little burn mark, somewhere, she wouldn't have been laying there. Then there was the key, the damning factor. Her bosom. Her shirt and bra were stretched so tightly, for she must of been at least a D cup. Every frightened breath she took shook and bounced those things frantically. Her eyes were blue, crystal and clear. They weren't part of the equation. Normally, they had to be an emerald green, but with a chest like that, the eyes weren't important. She was gorgeous and that was the problem. The problem, of course, was that she was sprawled out on the living room floor, about to be murdered.

She didn't know that yet. She was just waking up from the drug induced coma she had been laying lifeless in for the past half hour. He knew she had been out of it for longer then that; closer to three hours. However, she had been dropped down on the wooden floor only half an hour beforehand. Where she had been before that, he didn't know. Her little black dress was torn around her full hips, so he had a couple guesses. There was bruising on her thighs too, which painted a pretty picture. Still, he didn't know for sure. He didn't want to, either. He had decidedly not asked when her body had been slung onto the floor much like a heavy bag of potatoes. Instead, he had just knelt down and examined her as the shower ran from burning hot to icy cold.

Now she was waking up and the shower was off. He could hear footsteps walking from the bathroom to the bedroom. The apartment was incredibly small, so he could hear everything. A couple thumping steps and a metal clatter. The boots were on, but the belt had been tossed to the side. Some clicking followed by a radio hum. The phone was unplugged and the noise that would drown out the screaming began; tonight it was Guns N Roses 'Sweet Child of Mine' and 'Paradise City'. With the music cranked up, he couldn't hear the footsteps he knew were walking down the hall and into the living room/dining room/kitchen. She, though, seemed to be coming to the present quite quickly. Her eyes widened, a bit distractedly. The buzz was clearly fogging up her mind, which was probably the only reason she hadn't started asking pointless questions that would be obvious to anyone who'd ever seen a decent horror film. Rather, her head rolled around on her shoulders as if her neck was rubber.

Eventually, her eyes locked on his. She stared at where he was crouched down beside her previously lifeless form. He returned the expression favorably. He offered no explanation nor any assistance. He merely gazed down at her blanched cheeks, her pulsing chest, and her shaking hands. She mouthed something that she never got out right. There was a chance she didn't even speak English. Chances were, she continued to float around in the drug induced wonderland that was dulling her panicked reaction. He assumed that's why she didn't jump up and run for the door with it's triple pad lock. If it wasn't, then he just told himself she was dumb enough to deserve what was about to happen. No one was ever really that stupid, but he told himself so to ease the guilt he felt for never aiding the helpless. It allowed him some rest and with everything he had to deal with, he was happier with that then injuries from trying to help women dumb enough to drink a glass of liquor a stranger brought them in a sleazy bar.

That was why she was there, after all. Her ruined dress was skimpy and covered in stains that resembled the wine stains littering the carpet in the bedroom. With the amount of makeup that was smeared all over her face, he knew she had been picked up at a bar. He knew the method. A glass of some cheap beer or wine, depending on her outfit, that had already been spiked with a date rape drug. Some friendly conversation peppered with flirtatious suggestions until the drugs did their thing. She was escorted out to her death under the guise of a 'local gentleman' helping out 'a poor soul' who just 'drank too much too fast'. Two days later, that 'poor soul' would be found in a ditch, her neck black and blue, her eyes wide with fear, dead as dead could be. That's where this number was heading. He knew that as he tilted his head and blinked slowly. She had played right into the trap and the spider was on his way to drain the life out of those creamy cheeks so full of stupidity.

Just as she was beginning to perhaps realize that was the situation, he turned his head as cautiously as he could. Her rapidly blinking eyes went to the same central location. In the doorway was the spider, the man that would kill her. A tall, dashing man with tones of sinister handsomeness to his slender face. His hair was lightly red with a bit of curl to the long ends. Eyes cut from frozen waters looked out from the shadows, framed by his red hair and pale skin. His hands were cut up from years of work he had never done. The scars that were supposed to be there weren't, but they were meant to slice his face in half. His own traumas and battles couldn't be seen by that drunken woman starting to sit up. The eyes that looked at him, though, saw them. He knew the scars, he knew the anger, he knew the face. That was the face of his father, the one and only Charles Lee Ray, even if it was a face stolen in many ways.

Chucky, for that was his chosen name, stepped forward with a definite confidence to his stride. He was dressed in anything but what was portrayed in the movies. There was nothing scary about blue jeans and a black T-shirt. However, he knew that this vixen would come to fear that outfit for as long as she lived. Granted, that wouldn't be long, but she would. He watched as the killer stood over that woman. She was quivering harder, a hand groping the floor for something that wasn't there. There was fear rising up, tears starting to crawl down her cheeks. He knew that she had figured out what was going on. He knew that she could feel the burning between her legs and taste the drugs lingering on her tongue. She would never remember what had happened, but she wouldn't live long enough to dwell on it. She just broke down in hysterical sobs, her ample breasts bouncing heartily. They were her downfall. They tore her last chance for survival right out of her hands, although she would never know it.

His father knelt down in front of her. She croaked out a plead for mercy that was barely audible over her shrill gasps and sniffing tears. Chucky didn't hear the cries, didn't see the tears. If he had, he wouldn't of cared. He just reached out, his hand moving slowly, as if heading towards a loved one. When his fingers stroked up the side of her throat, his son licked his lips. He knew that expression. A primal lust had overtaken the man who had raised him. She didn't see it. She couldn't. She was too busy trying to save herself to actually do it. Her hands pushed up into her face, then jerked down to claw at the floorboards. A shriek was released. All it did was stretch the skin at her throat. Every second she cried, she dug another inch of her grave. She was six feet under long before she was dead. He knew this as he dryly swallowed, moving carefully to his bare feet.

" Go to your room, Glenn. . ."

The voice used wasn't commanding, wasn't strict, and wasn't even particularly wicked. It was airy and distracted. He saw those icy eyes narrowing while that malicious smile unfurled on that hard face, however. He knew what was coming and it wasn't something he was keen to witness again. Nodding, then, he turned away from where she had started to bellow for help. She had finally figured out that she was done for and had entered the final stage of terror. Like the rest of them, she was dumb enough to let it come too late to help anything. He thus just slipped around the couch and faced the skinny hallway that would take him to the bedroom where he would wait. He would sit on his bed, maybe curl up for a cat nap, and he would wait for the music to turn off. That wouldn't be for another hour. By then, the girl would be dead, cut apart at the limbs, and Chucky would lean in, drenched in the red, sticky stuff. He would light a cigarette and tell his baby boy that he was stepping out to dump the corpse. Glenn would say good night and go to sleep. His father would return in an hour or so and slip into his bed with him. They would sleep the rest of the night together, Glenn waking up frequently and Chucky snoring into the pillows. By the morning light, she would be gone and life would go on until some other tragically beautiful blond was thrown down onto the living room floor.

Knowing that, he started walking to his room. His head swayed to the sound of Guns N Roses. Faintly over the chorus line, he heard that woman shrieking. Then he heard a gagging desperate sound that was quickly drowned in crazed laughter that resounded in the tiny apartment. Her voice jerked, splattered in the air, before there was something like a cracking. He heard a wet noise before his father was lost in his own version of hysterics. Nodding faintly, Glenn continued down that hallway, snapping his fingers to the chorus of one of his favorite oldies songs. By the time he reached the room, he could barely hear the awful noise murder made. He blocked it out entirely by shutting the door on the woman who had been dumb enough to take a drink from a complete stranger. She had gotten what she was asking for, even if she didn't know it. Anyone that stupid deserved to die like that.

At least, that's how he saw it.

-

Fin.


	2. Fire

A/N- Second oneshot following the series.

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The candle was half way burned out. Wax pooled over the edge of the tiny dish beneath it's white base. The flame flickered dimly, moving to his steady breathing. Glenn stared directly at the small ball of fire. He watched as it danced around energetically and happily. The shadows that were cast fell on the burned and stained wood of the dining room table in strange shapes. Nevertheless, he could only stare at the flame to feel that slight tinge of interest. He assumed it was the color and the sheer human interest in the dangerous that drew his eye. Of course, he couldn't be positive. After all, that desire to touch the fire was striking. That wasn't exactly human nature, which would be to avoid pain. Still, he actually raised his hand and inched it closer to the flame. The heat licked at his fingers before he heard a crash and the breaking of glass.

Blinking slowly, he turned his head away from the only source of light in the room. In it's faded outreaches, he saw a figure slumped over at the ratty old couch. The pieces of the lamp lay scattered on the floor. He knew that the icy eyes he couldn't make out quite right were looking at the damage. Then, as if the crash hadn't taken place, that figure stood up. There were some footsteps and then his father slipped into the light of the candle on the dining room table. Glenn tilted his head, using both hands to shield his light from the older man. Two blue eyes were rubbed in a disoriented manner. It was obvious that the killer was still victim to the effects drinking a case of beer had on his slender form. If his red eyes weren't proof enough, then his slurred speech was.

" The powa out, kid?"

Chucky didn't look at Glenn as he asked. In fact, he fumbled around on the wall for the light switch to see for himself. Thus, Glenn never answered. Rather, he just returned to staring at the tiny ball of light. His father eventually found the switch and flipped on the lights. The entire room was bathed in it immediately. The shadows vanished, shrinking back in fear. The red, rundown couch cast the only real shadow left. That black thing stretched itself out over the shattered lamp that had been ignored. It continued to be as the killer scratched the back of his head. He cast a bewildered look at his child, who kept the flame covered.

" What the fuck's the candle fer?"

He wasn't asking because he cared nor because he wanted to know. He was asking out of obligation. That was specifically why he didn't receive an answer. Glenn decidedly remained silent, cupping his fingers close to the fire. The heat was dancing over his skin, threatening to burn them badly, but he ignored that too. Rather, he began to wiggle his fingertips, feeling the agonizing jolt of fire over flesh. The smallest of smiles started to make it's way up his face as the searing pain rushed from his hands to his shoulders. His grin widened to twisted proportions as his father took a seat at the table across from him. Chucky didn't seem to see what was going on at the candle. He looked in that general direction, yet he said nothing. Perhaps he wasn't sober enough to fully process the self inflicted torture. Perhaps he understood the method. Either way, he merely rubbed his forehead and leaned heavily back against the metal of the chair. One hand was propped up, the other was left on the table, tapping out the bass line to some song that the child didn't recognize for his youth.

For a moment, the only motions were that of their various fingers. Some tapped, others burned. Then, in a burst of sudden activity, Chucky had pulled out a slick black lighter and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. One cancer stick was bit on the end and pulled out of the small slit in the top. The lighter was flipped open and a puff was taken. A couple smaller drags followed before rounding off with one long one. Only then was the pack tossed to the side, used up, and the lighter was dropped onto the table. The clatter of it made Glenn drop his eyes to the tiny thing. While his father exhaled a cloud of grey smoke, he reached over and ran his singed fingers over the cold side of the lighter. He had seen Chucky use it for years, as it was his only one. This was the first time he'd had a chance to touch it.

Carefully, he picked it up. The killer didn't stop him. Instead, he waved his hand at him, granting his nonverbal permission to play around. Glenn took his time getting to the play part. He merely turned it upside down, frequently adjusting the angle in order to see all sides. There was nothing special about it, save for the bangs and nicks that covered the metal shell. He found it befitting for his father to have such a lighter. As it was, Chucky's true form bore many bangs and nicks of it's own. Life had it's way of marking the people who survived. Glenn liked the idea of his daddy dearest's personal items of having similar markings. Thus, he began to smile long before he flipped it open and revealed the shimmering embers within. When he had the flames burning, however, he snickered under his breath. He tilted and turned the lighter, observing the way the flames bent and flickered. Finally, unable to stop himself any longer, he held the flame to his outstretched hand. He smoothed the tips over the heat, bringing them closer to the fire. The pain grew steadily, jumping into his mind as the flames jumped to his skin.

As his fingers burned, Chucky watched through tangled locks of semi red hair. His bloodshot eyes moved over the fire in ways that mimicked Glenn's. He didn't take the lighter back, nor did he say anything about the mutilation. There was a time when he didn't appear to realize what was going on at all. Then, he licked his lips and took a long drag from his cigarette. At first, his son noticed that cold gaze returning to the living room. He saw his father looking at the lamp. The next moment, Chucky had turned his attention back over in the direction of the child who sat with his left hand submerged in flickering fire. The smell of burning flesh licked into the air between them long before anything was done about the matter. Blisters started to form before his father expressed any sort of reaction. The reaction, though, wasn't what would be called normal. Glenn expected it, of course. He even flipped the lighter shut before Chucky closed his hand over the two smaller ones.

" Don't do that,"

The lighter was removed from Glenn's hands with little effort needed. The child merely let it slip through his throbbing fingers and into the palm of his father. Chucky took a couple of turns flipping it open and closed, gazing down at the light himself. Then, nodding sharply, he pocketed the thing. Not protesting the removal of his newfound toy, Glenn returned his hands to their cupped position over the candle. Although he began to do the exact same thing there, nothing was said. The killer just sat in indifferent silence, inhaling and exhaling the smoke until there was nothing left to the cigarette. Blowing the last line of misty grey over his head, he burned the smoke out on the tabletop. The singe mark cut a dark ashy mark like so many others, adding to the damaged appearance of the wooden circle. The child looked on as the butt of the stick was discarded and his father rubbed his fingers over the burn mark. He didn't know why he did that. He just knew he usually did when he managed to ruin a piece of furniture. Chucky blinked cautiously all of a sudden then. Glenn didn't have to look to know what he was staring at. Regardless, he glanced over his shoulder and into the small kitchen behind the dining area they were seated at.

Splattered all over the fridge and running down the walls were thick streams of dried blood. The color was a dark stain that dragged itself down to the center of the tiled floor. Red drenched the clothes of the brunette woman sprawled out in a broken eagle form. Her hands remained poised in their death grip on the floor, the nails cracked in half. Both legs were bent slightly as if that would somehow protect her from the fifteen individual stab wounds that littered her torso. The slashes were long and random, slicing through her breasts and stomach. The flesh twisted around the open wounds, revealing what bone and organs could be made out through the blood soaked pieces of mangled tissue. Some teeth were scattered in the still pool of red surrounding her tortured corpse. Their original places could be seen in her wide open mouth, her jaw line shattered from a severe injury. Green eyes stared out from the carnage, forever staring at the ceiling that had offered her no more salvation then the man who had murdered her.

Whereas Glenn went right back to gazing deeply into the center of the fire, Chucky continued to look at the stone cold remains of his latest victim. The look was one of reserved remembrance. Considering the amount of beer bottles laying around the countertops sprinkled with blood drops, he probably only had a vague idea of who she was and how she had ended up there. Glenn, however, recalled it vividly. She had been a hooker, someone standing on a corner with her breasts stuck out. When the stolen car had rolled to a stop, she had undone her top and wiggled her bouncing breasts in the killer's face. She hadn't questioned the intentions of the evening. She hadn't even asked to stay within the limits of her pimp's territory. As far as prostitutes went, she was, by far, one of the dumbest the two Rays had ever run across. Although she had started to get nervous about the time they left the city, she hadn't even protested. She had just sat there in the backseat, giggling, and guzzling up the free liquor handed out in drug laced cups. She had been out cold for the hour long ride back up to the apartment where she would end up laying on a kitchen floor, nothing but a corpse. The only interesting thing Glenn saw about that was the simple irony that she had lived on her backside and she had died the exact same way.

After a moment, it appeared that Chucky found that to be the only interesting thing as well. His mouth snaked it's way into a half smile, a malicious tint overtaking his formerly bored expression. He unfurled his stolen body from the chair before slinking his way into the red stained room. His bare feet splashed into the blood, causing ripples that moved the icy looking liquid a small amount. Laughing under his breath, the killer crouched down beside that deformed body. As Glenn looked back, his father pulled out the lighter all over again. This time, though, he held the flame out over the exposed part of one of the woman's breasts. The dress started to catch while the flesh let off a burnt odor that cut through the bloody air. Laughter began to pour into said air as the child reached out to the wall. He placed his burned, bleeding finger on the switch as he saw Chucky moving the fire to the thighs of that dead hooker.

Darkness swam over them with a single flick. The shadows that danced over the walls contorted themselves into the vile images of a laughing man pulling up a woman's skirt. Turning away from them, Glenn looked into the swaying ball of fire on that waning candle. Gingerly, he surrounded the tiny flame with all ten fingers. Refusing to look elsewhere, he concentrated on the blackened skin appearing on his hands. The pain was next to unbearable, yet there was no screaming. He found a strange sort of comfort there, in the agony. He didn't think about it. He just listened to his father's delusional laughter as the smell of cooking skin bathed the dark room. In time, all he could think was that the pain was numbing and the smoke would soon put him to sleep. Then he could stop smelling the blood of that diseased woman. He would only smell himself burning.

Burning in hell.

-

Fin


End file.
